


Trumpence: Make Pence Gay (Again?)

by stitchesandicecream



Category: Political RPF
Genre: Blood, Broken Bones, Choking, Consensual Gore, Gore, Guro, Impalement, M/M, Near Death, Stabbing, Torture, Violence, Violent Sex, excessive blood, i realize the first chapter isnt much to look at but please use caution when reading this, its about to get incredibly violent and graphic, its pretty much an affront to decency, wire use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8528551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchesandicecream/pseuds/stitchesandicecream
Summary: Trump's so glad he came out on top...or is he? Winning the election was one thing, but what if he wanted to blow off some steam some other way? What if he wanted to be on top of...something else? When a sexy, thin twink of a man shows up in his doorway, who is he to refuse? Will our shriveled tomato finally find true love? Will he find something...more?Probably not, but he's at least about to get a good shag on with Pence.





	1. A Call; A Drink; A Piano

**Author's Note:**

> yall im so sorry

It was a long campaign, but at last it was over. Everything had gone well for Donald Trump that day. He felt like doing nothing more than retiring to bed, putting on a fresh layer of spray tan to keep that carrot look _fresh_ , and getting some well-deserved rest.

...except he hadn’t counted on actually winning.

He shook up his orange spray-tan and looked himself in the mirror with a sense of dismay. Before he could will his finger against the can, he sighed and put it down. This wasn’t going to relieve his stress. No matter how much he knew he was the greatest carrot in the land in spite of what Twitter told him, it still wasn’t enough. The stress was already building. With a shaky hand, instead, he picked up his phone and, after a moment’s hesitation, hit the dial button.

“...Mike?” he asked hesitantly.

Mike Pence was just stepping out of the shower with his perpetual Stepford Wives’ grin on and happily picked up his phone when he saw who was calling. Quickly slipping on a towel, he answered.

“Don! My, isn’t today wonderful?” he twinkled, not chirped, as only the twinkest of twinks could.

Trump almost cracked a smile at the saccharine sweet voice on the other end. He knew Mike was aware of how much he’d wanted to go down as a political martyr, not the real victor. But he also knew that Mike was in for this more than anyone and loyal to him, maybe moreso than anyone else alive. He planned to exploit that.

“Sure is, honeybuns. Tell you what, I’m sending a limo to your place to pick you up. I’ll see you at the penthouse for a little celebration.” With all the assurance of an entitled cheese nip, he slapped his phone closed – HA, yeah, no, flip phones are for poor people. He just slid the end call marker before Pence could respond. It felt really satisfying to him, though.

About half an hour and a glass of whiskey later, Trump got a call from security followed by Pence himself delivered right to his door. Trump looked up to see…

“Oh...Mike...”

The glass slipped from his hand and crashed against the floor.

Pence had shown up in nothing but his towel. He leaned against the doorframe with what was probably supposed to be a smirk, but he was like, way too soulless to actually pull that off. But he looked like a really enticing sex doll, probably. Or at least, that’s what Trump thought, so that’s all that mattered.

Pence walked into the dimly lit room and took his place on Trump’s lap, right where he knew he belonged and instantly embraced his overcooked dorito chip, tracing circles on his chest lovingly. “I thought you might need something a little...special...to help blow some steam off after your special day?” He gazed into Trump’s eyes with the distant look of a thousand galaxies twinkling at once, every single dim lamp reflecting into his twinkly eyes with a twinkle twink. He’s a twink, is what I’m getting at.

Trump smirked and lifted him easily and carried him across the room, slamming him onto the back of his baby grand piano that he had for some reason. He couldn’t play it, but it made him look smarter. That’s what his agent told him. He traced small lines up Pence’s chest, trying to get him enticed. When a twinkle emitted from the small space under his towel, that’s when he knew. He blew him a kiss as he walked to a dark corner of the room. “I’ll be right back, babe.”

He shuffled through a box of toys he had prepared just for this kind of occasion. He smirked as he looked them over, a few flakes of cheese dust falling from his lips as he did and he quickly shook them off of the objects. Trump turned around and approached the piano and his ever-so-enticing twink, already excited.

Trump was gonna grab Pence right by the twinkle.


	2. Twinkle Twinkle What The Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempt is made at sex. The results are less than desirable. Still no guro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont know what im doing with my life but i keep writing this  
> its gonna wind up being either four or five chapters  
> chapter four is definitely gonna be the guro hitter  
> i guess theres sort of guro in this one   
> kind of   
> in a way

Pence splayed himself out atop the piano, waiting for what he knew would be a romantic night. Trump was probably getting some rose petals or something. He’d watched a few gay pornos in his time. Lube, rose petals. A good hard fuck. Yeah, that sounded about right. Maybe Trump would also suddenly know how to speak French. Is that how this works? Pretty sure that’s how this works.

Trump approached the piano and, surprisingly, actually scattered rose petals over Pence. Each one somehow managed to catch the light from the twinkles in his eyes as it fluttered down. Weird, Trump thought. How was he not getting blinded by those? Well, whatever. He was probably immune to things like twinkles, the glint from a watch, and someone driving behind him with their brights on by being more orange than the sun itself. Thank the Lord our God for all that spray tan, amen.

Now to do some gay shit.

He placed all the other items he’d brought over on the piano bench for later. Tonight was his night, and he was going to enjoy it as long and hard as he wanted. Which was good, ‘cause that was honestly about to be the only thing that was long or hard happening. Trump’s genitals were literally just a carrot, that’s it, and Pence was working with a physically manifested twinkle groin. I’m honestly about as confused as you as to how this is going to work. Most on the part of the twinkle groin. People have jammed carrots into orifices before.

Kind of wishing I hadn’t given Pence the twinkle groin at this point, but there’s no going back, and honestly I’m really doing everyone a favor by basically censoring their sex this way, sort of. Anyways, back to slapping lightbeams with vegetables.

Trump didn’t bother lubing Pence up, since that would’ve been physically impossible anyways. It wasn’t clear where the twinkle ended and actual human flesh began, but Trump was a determined cheese puff and he’d be damned if he didn’t have himself a time tonight. With a thrust, he pushed forward, his cheese encrusted, misshapen carrot vibrating maybe. It just kept going and poked Pence in the stomach instead, though, because there was literally nothing down there except really powerful light emissions.

“Pence...” Trump huffed, already somewhat exhausted.

“Yes, Donny?” he said, blushing and blinking a few twinkles from his eyes. They fell against the piano and melted like snowflakes before instantly being replaced by more twinkles.

“Baby, I’d love nothing more right now than to just grab you by the twinkle.”

“Oh!” Pence flung himself backwards dramatically, laying his forearm against his forehead. Dramatically.

“Mike, I can’t actually grab your crotch. It’s...somehow just a giant lightbeam. We’re gonna have to do something else.” Trump sighed, zipping himself up again. As he leaned back, his hand skirted across some of the other tools he’d taken out of the box, suddenly remembering them and a ghost of a smile made its way across his tomato-carrot-spray-tan-cheese-puff face.

Pence leaned forward, huffing and clutching his towel to himself. It wasn’t his fault he was made with a crotch in the image of a star. That was how he knew he was blessed in the eyes of God, even though doctors his entire life had told him it was “an incredible anomaly,” “probably impossible,” and “look don’t eat until we can figure out how this works.” It was a divine gift and that was that, as far as he was concerned.

“What about...oral?” Pence tried. He was going to make this night work. As much as Trump wanted it, he did too.

Trump turned around, pausing a moment before fumbling with his pants before crawling on top of the piano and shoving Pence onto his back. Pence let out a noise, eager, before Trump thrust his carrot forward, stroking it a few times in the light of his twinkles. Slowly, he lowered himself into Pence’s eagerly awaiting face.

Pence knew exactly what to do, teasing the tip before starting to take the whole vegetable in as far as he could. Trump looked...remarkably unfazed. Like, the kind of look that said “is it in” except it was definitely in, Pence was hardcore deepthroating the god damn thing. If anything Trump looked confused. Which made Pence confused. And sort of hungry. It wasn’t until the noise of a crunch resonated through the room that Trump finally withdrew and they both shared an awkward gaze between each other.

“Mike.”

Pence started to slowly chew, hoping the crunching wasn’t nearly as audible as it seemed. It was.

“You ate the tip, Mike.” Trump at this point eagerly stuffed what was fortunately over half of a carrot back into his pants.

“...Sorry. I got kind of hungry. I wasn’t thinking. It’s a literal vegetable, Don.”

Neither of them addressed it beyond this point, which I for one am very thankful for. How the hell do you talk that one out? You don’t. Literally ate his dick, because it’s literally a vegetable meant for human consumption.

Trump sighed and turned, ready to end the night at that point and just stop while he was ahead. For once. If this election had taught him anything, it was that he didn’t know when to quit.

Then glint of an object twinkling in Pence’s twinkles caught his eye just as he was about to walk away from the piano, however. Trump turned around with eyes like the devil himself as he clutched at one of the “toys” he’d brought out to the piano bench.

“Mike, I’ve actually got a pretty good idea here. Yuge idea. Gonna be great.”

Pence couldn’t help but clutch his towel in glee, excited for whatever his running mate had suddenly come up with.

“You mean...the rose petals won’t go to waste? All these minutes I’ve spent cold on your baby grand piano will mean something?” Even his nipples were twinkling at this point. Eat your heart out, Edward Cullen.

Trump leaned forward, one hand behind his back and the other tracing Pence’s jawline.

“Sweetheart, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that I’ll always get my way. And tonight, my way is a carrot in a hole in your body.”

Finally brandishing the knife he’d been hiding, he grinned a dusty cheeto dust grin, dustily.

“Make a hole, babe.”


	3. Performance Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trump's ready to get guro, but the jokes start comin' and they don't stop comin'.  
> You have to be delicate with a man's first time.  
> or something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news i know how long this is gonna be  
> i realize the chapters are p small but ive got everything figured out now at least  
> the updates will be done by the end of next week
> 
> also big shoutout to my pal lolwat64 for lots of feedback and help with this writing process we wouldnt have had the carrot munching scene without her

Pence gasped, dropping the towel altogether. “Oh, Donny, you shouldn’t have…!”

See, Pence was a man of many unspoken kinks. Trump sort of was aware of this, like on some level, like on the please-stop-making-weird-noises-at-inappropriate-junctures level. He’d get wiggly at nature documentaries, especially those moments when the gator finally goes after that deer or whatever, uncomfortably shift around while watching Saw, had to leave the room altogether for several otherwise plain family films...Oh, yeah, this guy was probably the most kinkshameable guy to ever walk the Earth. And now? Trump had him all to himself, twinkling atop a piano in his own penthouse with no one else around.

“Ready, babe?” Trump said, brandishing the knife right above Pence’s navel. He was about to thrust it down and get ready for some action when Pence caught his wrist.

Trump looked up quizzically, seeing Pence blushing and averting his gaze. Pence took a moment to chew on his knuckles, still with an aftertaste of carrot in his mouth, before looking at Trump with a few scattered twinkles falling down his cheeks.

“It’s such a special night, Donny...I’ve never done this before...Can’t we…?” he started nervously, unable to fully express himself. He was starting to get a bit of stage fright if he was honest with himself, and no amount of Stepford Smile was going to carry him through it.

Trump scoffed at first, then smiled as he placed the knife next to Pence’s twinkling twink thighs, making sure to cut him just a bit on the way down. He trailed his hand around the twink’s neck, drawing him forward as if to kiss him before starting to press down ever so slightly. Pence’s twink breath caught in his small twink throat, twinkling twinkishly before he sputtered as his airflow was cut off. Twinklingly.

Before Pence could get too excited, Trump leaned back to the piano bench and grabbed something else, making sure to hold it out of Pence’s view. His grip tightened slowly and the light from Pence’s twinkles started to dim slightly as he gripped the orange man’s hand with his much smaller ones, struggling to hold onto consciousness.

“Yeah, just like that, a little more,” Trump cooed at the other man as he watched the twinkles fall from his eyes like stardust. When Pence’s eyes finally fluttered shut, he let go as Pence laid back on the piano and gasped for breath.

Pence came around just a few moments later, already desperate for more but feeling an added weight to himself. His hands traced around his neck and met each other at a small bell held at the front of a metal collar now attached to him. Before he could think on it further, Trump attached a heavy chain to it as well.

The twinkle production from Pence was unprecedented. There were twinkles stuck in his hair at this point. There was also some cheese dust, but neither of them could see it. But, like, trust me, it’s there. It’s basically on everything at this point, but Trump never really notices it ‘cause it’s basically his aura and also his cleaner’s problem, not his. Pence just can’t see anything because there are fucking twinkles everywhere.

Trump tugged his running mate forward, trailing the knife across his chest and leaving dotted red trails as he finally rested it gently on Pence’s navel. He was close enough to Pence’s face that his nose wrinkled with the overpowering smell of stale Cheeto, but it was cool ‘cause Trump didn’t notice for all of the twinkles. I mean, either way, Pence was about to get stabbed, so it wouldn’t have mattered anyways.

Straightening the knife, the only context in this room that the word straight could conceivably be used, Trump trained his aim and held it steadily above Pence. He gave him a look to check that he was ready and once he received the nod, he gathered his strength and plunged the knife down into Pence.

The sound of a crack resonated through the room followed by a scream as the great orange cheese puff realized he’d hit bone.


	4. Oh, no, it’s the guro stuff I kept talking about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pence gets, like, heavily stabbed. Severely, very stabbed. Viewer discretion is advised.

Pence was blinded for a moment by what was distinctly not twinkles, for once in his godforsaken life. He didn’t even hear himself scream. He knew that Trump wasn’t exactly a delicate shell of a man, but good _lord_ he had never experienced this kind of pain in his life. It was like he’d been forced out of his body, out of his mind, in the moment the knife nearly split him in two.

His eyes rolled forward, he hadn’t realized he’d been that out of it, and his gaze wandered down to his own stomach, shaking violently the entire way down. He gagged at the sight of his own entrails, seeing every pulse of his guts rolling as they prepared to eject whatever they could.

Trump smirked down as Pence turned to the side and emptied his stomach onto the piano. He purred a Cheeto-y purr and stroked his back, muttering sweet nothings as Pence continued to be sick. A flurry of “it’s okay,” “it’ll be over soon,” and “hush, babe” drowned the room over the sounds of retching.

Pence huffed and slowly caught his breath, rolling delicately to face Trump again. His intestines were splayed across the piano in a pool of bile and blood, tugging at the rest of his organs with every move he made. The sight was horrifying to him, seeing the most intimate parts of his body on gory display like this. It was so…

Hot.

He violently shuddered as he forced himself forward as much as he could before Trump grabbed the chain of his collar and forced him into a sloppy kiss. The man was clearly not experienced at it, but Pence didn’t care – partly for how much he was still reeling at having been sliced open and partly because, well, frankly he was expecting this.

Trump was basically high off the taste of blood still lingering in Pence’s mouth. He quickly slid his hands down Pence’s chest, meeting the viscera pooled in both of their laps now and tugging forward. There was just so _much_ , how could a man so small have been holding all of this inside of him? He leaned back, holding it up like a trophy and admiring the thin tissue that held the whole network together. With childlike curiosity, he palmed a section of it before digging his hand in, tearing the thin flesh apart with a sound not unlike the ripping of paper. Blood gushed from the tear, much more than Trump had been expecting.

“Mike, you’re...beautiful inside...” he whispered, an orange flush on his face as he breathed in the scent of gore permeating the room. Pence gazed up at him, wordlessly, the twinkles still in his eyes letting Trump know that he was still eager for more.

Trump was overtaken by the moment, loving how helpless Pence was under him. He clutched the knife again, slicing deeply across his chest and watching as the man slowly turned into a small red fountain. His clothes were absolutely drenched in blood at this point. He leaned forward and took in the sweet scent, burying his nose in the cuts before biting down on Pence’s nipple. Hard. Too hard.

Pence screamed, throwing his head back and losing himself in pain before looking up to see what used to be his entire nipple hanging from Trump’s red and orange mouth. There was a Frosted Flakes joke in here somewhere, but he was far too dizzy with pain to even conceive of that. I just wanted to let y’all know. I mean, I’m not gonna make it, but it’s in there.

By the time he came around again, he tried to push himself forward but found that he couldn’t. Trump had a firm grip on his wrists, guiding them above his head to the other end of the piano. Both of them were taking very shallow breaths, albeit for different reasons. With a single hand on Pence’s wrists, Trump slowly guided the trail of bleeding intestines up and around his wrists, tying them together as he wrapped the remaining end around one of the legs of the piano before nearly lying on top of the dying man.

With the most disgusting kissy face, like y’know that look he gets sometimes? Like, it’s almost akin to constipation or something, but it’s usually more when he’s in the heat of some speech and going on to the crowd about “yeah keep doing what youre doing its a party ha ha” kind of deal? And it’s all scrunchy and whatever? That kind of face, except like he’s trying to make it kissy. Anyways.

With the most disgusting kissy face, he pecked a soft line across Pence’s chin, whispering about how great he was, how good he was being through all this. Pence huffed in contentment, thinking they were nearly over, when he felt a tug around his waist.

Trump was pulling against his exposed pelvis. It started with a few pops, then a snap, then an increasing tearing sound and feeling that increased with every tug. Pence couldn’t hold back his cries of pain, twinkles falling from his eyes like tears as his spine was slowly ripped in two.

When Trump could see the exposed tissue connecting the end of Pence’s spine to his hips, he couldn’t hold himself back.

He ripped his carrot right off of his crotch and plunged it forward, slicing the man in two.

The life was slowly starting to drain from Pence. He knew he didn’t have much more in him for the night, especially with his lower half detached. He wriggled pathetically, barely able to move at all, and groaned. That was the best he could do to try and communicate to Trump that he’d had enough. More than enough.

Trump was about done, himself, coated more in blood than cheese dust at this point. It had caked across his face, into his clothes, and now very intensely into his carrot dick. He took a moment to lift it before burying it directly into Pence’s stomach, causing the man to groan weakly in agony. Trump waited a bit, cooling off himself before taking in the scene.

His running mate looking dead, guts strewn across his piano. Blood stained across the room. Pence’s lower half dangling lifelessly on the edge of the piano while his arms were still held above him with his own entrails. A perfect picture of a night gone wrong.

But for the two of them, it was just perfect. The perfect night together. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really dont have any excuses for this


	5. Veggie Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> woops i forgot to post this on time  
> also just thank god its done this was almost physically painful for me to get all the way through yall

Trump realized that, before Pence’s unconscious body started to heal at all, he’d have to somehow weld it back together. Did you weld bodies? Were humans weld-able? Was that a thing? Fuck. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t even watch medical dramas. That was for poor people. He frantically searched the room for some kind of solution.

Okay, first thing, chain and collar off. Good. Now those things are out of the way. Could those get Pence back together? He tried to hook one end to Pence’s flesh. It fell off instantly, attached to a falling twinkle. Well, that wasn’t helpful. Fuck. Fuck. The cleaning crew absolutely could not find Pence in two pieces. Or worse, just half of him. There was only so much he could bullshit through to these people.

Don’t panic, okay, something-

Wait. Pianos have strings, right?

Trump flung the piano open, sending Pence’s legs flying across the room while his upper half slid off the edge of the piano, still attached by his intestines to the leg, and landed on the rug with a splat.

Without any real care for what he was doing, he ripped several of the piano strings out before rushing over to Pence’s lower half and dragging it across the room to frantically try tying him back together. It was a bit of a process, mostly involving Trump literally just ripping holes all over wherever he could find and sliding the string through until, sort of, kind of, Pence resembled most of a human being, he was pretty sure. Yeah, that looked about right. Pretty sure he looked like that when he showed up.

There was a vague sense of satisfaction in the back of his mind as the voice of his subconscious chimed, “You buffoon, you fool, you left his intestines outside of his body, what the fuck is wrong with you” at him as he fell asleep.

 

Pence yawned and stretched as much as he could as the first rays of sunlight hit him, twinkling against his twinkles and waking him up. Twinkle twinkle.

He was a little sore, but that was to be expected. He looked down and noticed that Trump had somehow put him back into one piece, which was a miracle in its own right. His hands were still bound with his intestines. Worrisome, but he could work with this. Since that ship had sailed, he stretched them as much as he could and wriggled his way out, working his arms around Trump who was curled around him. It was, like, almost sweet, except they’re both soulless monsters, so it sort of really wasn’t that sweet. It maybe could’ve been if they were both someone else, but they’re not, so whatever.

“Don? Donny, wake up, sweaty,” Pence whispered. And he absolutely meant that in the you-are-covered-in-disgusting-Cheeto-slime-sweat sense, not sweetie spelled wrong intentionally.

Trump stirred from his sleep, smiling at Pence before wiping some of the blood from his face into Pence’s hair. Cheap fuck + napkin combo. And he didn’t even have to get Billy Mays to tell him about it.

Pence, fortunately (unfortunately?) mistook it for a kiss and smiled up at Trump.

“Thanks for putting me back together before you fell asleep.”

Trump nodded absentmindedly, not feeling awake enough to explain that it was mostly so that he wouldn’t have to explain to basically the entire world why his running mate was suddenly just a torso. That would’ve been weird. And probably wouldn’t have ever ended, really.

He picked himself up from the floor, not offering to help Pence, before wandering over to his wardrobe to try and find a new suit to change into.

Pence winced, nearly feeling himself fall apart as he stood up. Or, at least, that’s what he thought at first, but then the odd feeling just never went away. It was like there was something stuck where it shouldn’t be. But that couldn’t be right. His intestines were right there. He was staring at them. He called out to Trump.

“What is it, Mike? We’ve gotta get cleaned up and dressed before anyone can find us like this,” he said, washing his face over a sink in the room in a soupy mess of cheese water and blood.

“You didn’t...sew anything weird into me when you put me back together, did you?” Pence asked hesitantly.

The cheese color drained from Trump’s face from yellow american to swiss in an instant. He turned to Pence, noting the odd bulge sticking out of the man’s side. Oh, no. Oh, god, no. In a moment of terror, he grabbed at his crotch clumsily, searching desperately for what he knew he wasn’t going to find.

His carrot. He’d left his carrot. Inside of Pence.

“Mike. Remember how you ate some of my dick?”

Pence nodded slowly.

“You, uh. You’ve got the whole thing in you now. Congratulations.”

Pence flushed, twinkishly. With twinkles.

“Now get dressed.”

From that day forward, neither of them ever. Ever. Brought that subject up around each other ever again.


End file.
